


Patience; or, a long time coming

by softestpunk



Series: Champion [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Feelings, M/M, Post-Canon, bed sharing, do you like subby Geralt because this is basically that for 17k, orgasm denial!!!, small amounts of political scheming but honestly less than usual, that is basically the point of the fic tbh and I didn't get as much in as I would have liked, the whole thing kinda spiralled out of control ngl, there is also:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 11:27:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16660273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/softestpunk
Summary: “The book is yours regardless,” Emhyr said, and he wasn’t actually smirking, but Geralt could still hear a smirk in his voice. “But I had thought to propose a wager. The usual terms.”After the events of Champion, Geralt and Emhyr have a perfectly acceptable arrangement--that is, until Geralt lets slip three little words and sets off a chain of events that require both men to consider what they mean to each other, where they've been, and where they're going.





	Patience; or, a long time coming

**Author's Note:**

> The book Emhyr gives Geralt in the beginning is [quills_at_dawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quills_at_dawn/pseuds/quills_at_dawn)'s invention, and a damned good invention it is, too.
> 
> I swear to god this was meant to be a short, fun PWP about orgasm denial and then suddenly: feelings. It is very possibly terrible as a result but TOO BAD, it's finished and I'm posting it.

“Now that your Nilfgaardian has improved so vastly,” Emhyr began as the footman closed the carriage door after him. “I thought we might test your Elder Speech.”

Geralt’s Nilfgaardian had improved, all right. Emhyr had taken teaching him on as a personal task--by way of bringing him right to the edge and then refusing to let him come until he’d gotten whatever scrap of grammar or vocabulary was that day’s lesson right, accent and all.

As lessons went, they were effective.

Geralt accepted the book Emhyr held out toward him. Brand new? The smell of fresh ink still rising from the pages?

Strange.

“It is a copy of the original,” Emhyr said, answering Geralt’s unasked question.

He was getting annoyingly good at that.

“I hope you will consider it a gift,” Emhyr added, his voice softening just a touch around the edges.

Earlier in the week, Geralt had made a mistake. Three little words that he hadn’t even meant to say. Hadn’t even _thought_ before they were spilling forth, suddenly hanging between them.

In the silence that followed, Geralt had believed for long moments that he’d ruined _everything_. He’d gotten up, washed, dressed, and gone back to his own bed to toss and turn all night, worried that Emhyr was so offended by the idea that he’d never speak to Geralt again.

And then Emhyr had announced that he was planning to travel for a trade summit at which his personal intervention was likely to be required.

And that Geralt was coming with him.

Geralt had been so relieved that they were still speaking to each other that he’d forgotten to object. Thankfully, Emhyr had decided they were travelling by carriage instead of portal.

He cracked the book open, curious.

And found an illustration of two elves in a position he wasn’t… entirely… convinced was physically possible.

Well, elves were flexible. Apparently.

He looked up, raising an eyebrow.

“The book is yours regardless,” Emhyr said, and he wasn’t actually smirking, but Geralt could still hear a smirk in his voice. “But I had thought to propose a wager. The usual terms.”

“Winner names his prize,” Geralt said. The prize was always a personal favour--Emhyr liked to make Geralt attend some kind of event, and then fuck him while they each complained about the nobility after.

Geralt almost always asked for a neck massage or for Emhyr to wash his hair for him. Emhyr was surprisingly gracious about doing either when he lost.

What was the worst that could happen?

“Okay. How do I win?”

The brief flash of triumph in Emhyr’s eyes made his stomach flip over. Not in a _bad_ way. That look was usually a good sign for the immediate state of Geralt’s sex life.

“The text in your hand describes, among other things, a very interesting elven practice to do with the delaying of orgasm in the interest of heightening the eventual pleasure.”

Geralt wet his lips, shifting minutely as the carriage took off. Emhyr had this way of saying things like that in a perfectly calm, disinterested tone, and if Geralt was prone to being embarrassed about things like being painfully turned on in the space of a few seconds… he would have been pretty mortified.

“Following so far,” Geralt said. He could get behind a little delayed gratification.

“Obviously, you are free to read up on the finer points,” Emhyr said. “But for our purposes, my proposal is simple. Neither of us is to finish at all, under any circumstances, until we return to the palace.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. That was… new.

Normally, Emhyr just stopped _him_ , with the occasional variation where Emhyr liked to _time himself_ to see how fast he could actually get Geralt to come.

Unfortunately, as Geralt suspected he often did, Emhyr had managed to shoot himself in the foot with his own ingenuity early on. His record of _literally instant_ was now, for obvious reasons, difficult to best.

Geralt still maintained that aphrodisiacs were cheating, but on the other hand, he didn’t want Emhyr to stop experimenting with them. Things that worked one way on a normal Nilfgaardian man worked _very_ differently on a witcher.

“You may win either by holding out until then, or by causing me to finish first.”

Geralt swallowed.

They were supposed to be away for four days.

When Geralt had asked why they were travelling to a smaller city barely a day's ride outside of Nilfgaard, Emhyr had explained that they were hoping firstly that he would not bother to make the journey and instead send a softer emissary, and secondly that if he _did_ , it would tire him such that he would be more likely to give them what they wanted.

Geralt could hardly believe they'd underestimated him so badly.

He shifted again, the pit of his stomach suddenly tight. A challenge.

Challenges were good.

“The remainder of the rules are simple,” Emhyr continued. “I may do anything I wish to you in the interest of winning, and you in turn may do anything you wish to me. However, either of us may stop the other at any time, and we must stop immediately if asked.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes. He had more than enough willpower to just stop Emhyr from touching him, didn't he?

“You needn't be suspicious,” Emhyr said. “Perhaps I'm underestimating you. Perhaps this will be an easy victory for you and you may reap whatever reward you can imagine once we’re done.”

“Alternatively,” he continued. “You may choose not to accept this wager. You will still be welcome in my bed.”

Geralt breathed a tiny sigh of relief at that.

Unfortunately, he would have missed Emhyr if he lost interest now.

Geralt sat back, considering.

“You're going to be busy on this trip, aren't you?”

“Incredibly,” Emhyr confirmed.

“Then you're on,” Geralt said. “You're not even gonna have time to torture me.”

“You think not?” Emhyr asked, raising an eyebrow. “Well. Perhaps you're correct.”

Geralt recognised that tone. It was the one Emhyr used when someone had just made a mistake.

Too late to back out now, though.

Besides, Geralt didn't plan on losing, _and_ he didn't plan on waiting until they got back to Nilfgaard, either.

He’d win this tonight and make Emhyr regret underestimating him.

How hard could it possibly be?

***

Geralt's first play, as it turned out, was to fall asleep with the book Emhyr had given him in his lap.

Or perhaps he was simply tired, or bored, though the gleam of arousal had been shining in his eyes the last time Emhyr had looked up at him. Tired, then.

Geralt was not a lazy man by any stretch of the imagination, but he did enjoy sleep. He was always at his most affable when he was allowed to wake and rise in his own time.

Emhyr studied his features, allowing himself the indulgence while Geralt wouldn't notice.

They had reached a compromise as far as his sense of dress went, in that Emhyr did not comment on it and Geralt had learned, somewhere along the line, that his making an effort to dress like a civilised person would be generously rewarded when it came time to _undress_.

Not that Emhyr had any desire to _change_ the witcher. Merely knock off some of his roughest edges, and only then when they were among company.

In private, he much preferred Geralt to wear nothing at all.

Geralt had said he loved him a week ago.

Emhyr was still recovering from the shock.

He had known that his own feelings toward Geralt had been shifting almost constantly for many months. At first, the simple desire to _possess_ had driven his actions.

And then Geralt had proved himself to be a surprisingly stimulating conversation partner and oddly comforting company, and warmth had grown between them.

Then he’d managed to force Emhyr to wear his heart on his sleeve in front of what had felt like half the city--though was only, at maximum, a tenth or so.

It was enough to convince the _people_ that the witcher held his heart. Geralt had quickly become a popular man.

Especially among those families who had children they felt would be approximately suitable as partners for Ciri.

Geralt, of course, saw through them. He had never courted popularity before, and was clearly not about to start now.

Emhyr had not allowed himself to love again after he’d lost Pavetta and Ciri. Love was _dangerous_.

As was heartbreak, which had cost him impossibly much the last time he’d been required to navigate it.

It had cost him parts of himself.

His fear was not that Geralt would betray him--indeed, what he had once called a betrayal, Emhyr now saw as Geralt saving him. Saving him from condemning another and having to live with it on his conscience.

Emhyr had come to discover that many things weighed on Geralt's conscience in a way they simply didn't on his.

He had come to realise that Geralt trying to save him from himself was an act of love. And there had been so many more since.

But they’d had such an easy balance when all this was _unspoken_. Saying it aloud, forcing it into the realm of the real, that changed things.

Geralt had not said it, of course, with any of this in mind. He had merely been sated, and in an otherwise good mood, and the words had slipped free quite unintentionally.

Emhyr, in his usual way of being his own best saboteur, had simply frozen. He was not accustomed to freezing.

But every time he’d heard those words in the past two decades, they’d been a lie. He had not been ready to hear them as truth.

Now, Emhyr felt as though the ground was shifting beneath his feet, and not only because he had arranged to travel by carriage simply to indulge Geralt’s irrational feelings about portals.

He suspected that was the clearest sign that his own feelings ran much deeper than he’d intended, that it was far too late to do anything but accept them now.

But he needed this confirmation. The knowledge that, sex removed from the equation, he would still feel the same way. That he had not simply grown attached to having someone both compatible and challenging within arm’s reach at all times.

And then, perhaps, he could allow himself this one small indulgence in his autumn years.

***

Their first stop turned out to be at the summer home of a high-ranking duke--absent for the moment--whose wife seemed overwhelmed by the prospect of hosting the emperor and terrified of Geralt.

Geralt had done what he could to soothe her fears, and his Nilfgaardian was good enough now to grasp the finer points of polite conversation, but he’d still been able to smell the sour anxiety rolling off her as he’d bid her good night.

All of which added up to the first moment when they were finally alone, when the small army of attendants that Emhyr travelled with had been dismissed for the night and the door had swung closed behind the last one, being one of the best of Geralt’s long life so far.

He flopped down onto Emhyr’s bed without a second thought, humming happily and waiting for his personal emperor to join him before he remembered the goddamn wager.

Sighing, Geralt sat up, watching as Emhyr undressed--something he always did himself, except for when he let Geralt take over.

That was as good an opening play as any, Geralt supposed. He stood, crossing to Emhyr and gently batting his hands away, getting to work on the unnecessarily complicated buckles and lacings of his clothes.

Emhyr stood still for him, allowing his touch as his tired eyes fell closed. Geralt knew he enjoyed this. Enjoyed having someone he really, genuinely trusted do this for him, knowing that he was safe to allow it and could simply enjoy the slide of rough fingers over his skin as Geralt undressed him layer by layer--of which there were half a dozen too many, in Geralt’s opinion.

But this was Emhyr’s armour, and Geralt knew he was privileged to see him without it.

“You were very charming at dinner,” Emhyr murmured, eyes still closed as he stood naked in front of Geralt while Geralt started working on his own clothes. “A shame you’re unlikely to allow me to show the full extent of my appreciation.”

“Not gonna work,” Geralt said, sighing happily as his oppressively tight doublet dropped to the floor.

Emhyr had packed a whole range of similarly-tailored clothes for him, and just this once, because he’d been terrified he’d lost Emhyr forever when he was invited on this trip, he’d actually agreed to wear whichever ones Emhyr told him to, whenever he told him to.

This thing they were doing was important, Geralt knew. A big future-of-Nilfgaard kind of event, despite the fact that it was being done quietly. He didn’t want to be responsible for screwing it up.

Which was why he still didn’t really understand why he was here at all.

The best he’d come up with was that this was Emhyr’s attempt at an apology for not being able to love him back, which wasn't really something he needed to apologise for. Unfortunately, Geralt couldn't find the words to tell him that it was okay. That he didn't really mind.

Everyone expected a lot from Emhyr--though no one expected more than he did from himself--and Geralt didn't want to add to that.

He hadn't even meant to _say_ it.

“I really never tire of watching you undress,” Emhyr murmured after a moment as Geralt worked on getting the leggings he’d been wearing off some other way than tearing them along the seams.

“Really?” Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Not much to look at.”

“There is such a wealth to look at that I fear I will never quite notice it all,” Emhyr said. “Every scar is a story. A story, I’d wager, of a time you survived something that another man would not.”

Geralt shrugged. “Hard to kill.”

“Indeed,” Emhyr murmured, taking a step to close the gap between them.

Geralt moaned happily, warmth flooding his stomach as Emhyr sealed their mouths together. He would have liked to pretend it was out of anticipation for what came next, but that had ceased being true a while ago.

The sex was great, but Geralt just liked the way Emhyr kissed him.

He liked feeling the full weight of Emhyr’s attention settle on him. He liked being, at least for a few moments, the most important thing in his vast empire.

How had he ever managed to convince himself that _power_ wasn’t what got him off?

Geralt’s cock stirred, an automatic response by now, but he wasn't planning on giving in _that_ easily.

Emhyr's fingers skimmed down his side, tickling sensitive skin at his ribs, one hand curling over the curve of his hip, thumb tracing deep, slow circles into Geralt’s skin.

The other wrapped around his half-hard cock, Geralt’s head spinning as blood rushed south.

He gave Emhyr a few moments to stroke him, then broke the kiss and let his head fall against the emperor's shoulder.

“I'm not letting you win for a _handjob_ ,” he said.

“You may stop me at any time,” Emhyr murmured in response, his own hard cock brushing against Geralt’s skin.

“You can keep it up,” Geralt said, letting himself lean a little closer to Emhyr. His eyes fell closed as he focused on the dual sensations of Emhyr’s hand curled around his hip and the one on his cock, more affectionate than lustful.

It might've been nice to just have Emhyr hold him for a few minutes.

Not that Geralt _ever_ planned on asking for that. He knew their relationship was just about mutually satisfying sex and company that was, if nothing else, _entertaining_ , and he was grateful that he got to spend time with Ciri, and one day when Emhyr was tired of him and she didn’t need him anymore, he’d move on.

But a cuddle would have been _nice_.

“If you fall asleep standing here, I will have to call someone to help carry you to bed,” Emhyr said.

Geralt sighed. “I’ll go to my room,” he murmured, not entirely willing to move just yet, even to the adjoining room.

“You may, if you wish.” Emhyr turned his head to kiss Geralt’s temple. “But you might also stay with me.”

Something in Geralt’s chest contracted. He had planned, earlier, to seduce Emhyr tonight, reduce him to need and want and begging, win this wager, and spend the rest of their trip being fucked whenever Emhyr had a spare moment for him. Now, though, he was exhausted, and aside from his cock being excited about the idea, not really in the mood.

They didn’t share a bed when they weren’t having sex. That was why Geralt still had his own rooms in the palace.

And while part of him suspected that this was a play to help Emhyr’s chances of winning, another part of him just… wanted that. To share a bed for no reason, for the sake of being close, because they were happier in each other’s company than they were out of it.

Six months ago, Geralt would have been horrified to think that. But things had _changed_.

He might not have agreed with Emhyr on every possible point, they might not have thought the same way about a lot of things, but… Geralt liked his company. And he knew Emhyr relaxed around him the way he didn’t around anyone else, too.

“Just to sleep?”

“I plan on stopping you immediately if you try anything else,” Emhyr said.

So. Just to sleep.

Geralt wasn't sure what he'd done to earn this, but he wasn't about to complain. Maybe it was ridiculous to be excited about sharing a bed, but he _was_ excited.

Emhyr even took his hand away from Geralt's cock in what Geralt could only assume was a sign of goodwill.

This wasn't a trick. Emhyr really was just tired.

“Come,” Emhyr murmured. “We have another long day ahead tomorrow.”

Geralt followed him to the bed as he stepped away, taking his usual side, unsure how close to get.

“Have I suddenly become repulsive to you in some way?” Emhyr asked, and while his tone conveyed a verbal eyeroll, Geralt could sense the faintest undercurrent of concern.

There was a lot hanging between them at the moment. Geralt was content to forget about it, pretend he’d never said anything, but Emhyr would never have let something like this lie. Even if they never actually _talked_ about their feelings--and neither of them were inclined to do that if they could help it--Emhyr would keep thinking about it, probably until he died.

“No,” Geralt said. “Just wasn’t sure if maybe you wanted some space.”

“If I wished you to be further away, I could have sent you to your own bed,” Emhyr said with the air of a man who suffered constantly over Geralt’s lack of understanding.

He really didn’t, but Geralt knew why he was being like this, and couldn’t quite begrudge him the uncertainty. He was uncertain, too.

“Emhyr,” Geralt began, pausing as he considered what he wanted to say. “You can just ask for the things you want,” he settled on, since that was the core of the problem.

When it came to sex, Emhyr didn’t mind giving orders that left no room for interpretation, or explaining in glorious detail exactly what he wanted Geralt to do.

But when it came to _anything_ else, he treated Geralt like the slightest misstep would drive him from the palace as fast as Roach could carry him.

Hell, he’d never actually just… _asked_ Geralt to come to dinner or a ball or anything like that. He’d always won the right to it.

Geralt would have gone. He didn’t need to be forced into the role he was playing. Every day, he made the choice to stick around. Not out of inertia or because a better offer hadn’t come along yet, but because he _liked_ Emhyr. Separately to having fallen in love with him.

He liked to think they were friends, aside from being lovers.

What he was starting to realise was that whether or not Emhyr might have _wanted_ that, he didn’t really know he already had it.

“I want to hold you while I sleep,” Emhyr said after a few long moments of silence, the words escaping him as though he’d been trying to stop them. If Emhyr had been any other man, he would have seemed ashamed.

“Okay,” Geralt said, shuffling his way across the bed, his heart suddenly pounding. It wouldn’t have been the first time they fell asleep wrapped around each other, but it _would_ have been the first time when they hadn’t fucked first.

All the same, he let Emhyr arrange him so they were both comfortable, and tucked his head under the other man’s chin, and let his eyes fall closed as he listened to Emhyr’s steady heartbeat.

Just a tiny bit faster than normal.

At least he wasn’t the _only_ one who was nervous about this, then.

“See?” Geralt murmured, hoping to encourage Emhyr to keep just _telling_ him things, instead of hoping Geralt would figure it out. “Got what you wanted, and all you had to do was ask.”

Emhyr huffed. “If only everything was so simple.”

“I bet more things would be if you gave honesty a chance,” Geralt said.

“It really is that easy for you, isn't it?” Emhyr asked, wonder in his voice. “Are you enjoying the book?”

For Emhyr, that was an astoundingly clumsy change of subject. Which meant they'd been _getting_ somewhere.

Fine. Geralt could prod at this again later. If he tried to do it now, Emhyr would just clam up entirely and they'd never get any further.

“It’s given me an idea or two so far,” Geralt said. “How much elf are you, exactly?”

“No living human could say for certain. Almost everyone has _some_ elven blood.”

“Yeah, but you _look_ like an elf, come to think.”

“Ciri looks like an elf,” Emhyr corrected.

“Ciri looks like an Aen Elle. _You_ have the air of the Aen Seidhe about you.”

Emhyr snorted. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Since when do I _flatter_ you?” Geralt asked, shifting a little and then snuggling closer. “You've got that… proud and noble elder race look about you. Maybe it's because you're the emperor. I don't know, but I know you _feel_ a little more elven than most.”

“I suppose you have felt a lot of elves,” Emhyr said dryly.

“Witcher,” Geralt responded, allowing himself a tiny smile. “Haven't you heard? The only feelings we have are anger and lust.”

“I have heard,” Emhyr murmured. “And much as I enjoy your displays of both of those, you are far more complex than that.”

Geralt sighed softly, surprising relief washing over him. It was good to hear that from a man he spent so much time with these days.

He was afraid. Afraid that this was all about to turn into exactly what he'd had with Yen--where there was definitely something between them, but they spent half their lives mad at each other because again: talking about their feelings wasn't either of their favourite things.

At least he and Emhyr seemed to be talking _around_ their feelings. It was better than nothing.

And the acknowledgement that Geralt _had_ feelings was comforting, too.

“It is important to the success of this journey that you do not fall into bed with anyone else,” Emhyr said, all of a sudden and in an uncharacteristic rush.

Geralt shifted to look at him, confused. “Wasn't planning on it,” he responded.

“I have… use for you that will require people generally accept that we come as a pair without my ever having to state it. And before you say so, I know you would have liked to hear this earlier.”

Geralt _would_ have liked to hear it earlier, but he also understood exactly why he hadn't.

Emhyr had been afraid he'd object.

Because he was scared, too. Worried that the delicate balance they'd had was upset, that he wasn't in a position to ask for a favour.

“Is that why I'm sleeping here?” Geralt asked cautiously. He didn't _want_ to hear that this was part of some political move Emhyr planned to make, but if it was, he needed to know.

“No,” Emhyr murmured, reaching out and stroking his fingers through Geralt's hair. “I asked out of sheer selfishness. I would like to sleep soundly tonight.”

A lump formed in Geralt's throat.

He'd eventually realised that he made Emhyr feel safe, but the reminder still hit him right in the middle of the chest.

Geralt liked to be needed. _Loved_ to be needed, in fact.

Another unwanted _I love you_ welled up in his throat, but he swallowed it down.

He had everything he wanted right now, and there was no sense in ruining it.

***

Emhyr woke to Geralt kissing his way down his chest and stomach, pausing to dip his tongue into Emhyr's navel, knowing by now exactly how and where to touch for maximum effect.

Gasping, Emhyr fisted his hand in Geralt's hair, a surge of need welling up in his belly.

He would not allow this to go _too_ far, but letting Geralt have his way for a little while would only serve to make the day more entertaining.

He didn't even bother to stifle a moan as Geralt's unfairly clever tongue circled the head of his cock, lapping away a bead of precome with a soft, happy sound.

It was difficult to say, between the two of them, who enjoyed this more. Emhyr was aware that given the opportunity, Geralt would have done little else but suck his cock.

“Good morning to you as well,” Emhyr said, allowing just a little strain to creep into his voice.

He had no intention of coming, but the warmth of Geralt's mouth was too good to pass up entirely.

Geralt hummed, sealing his lips around the head of Emhyr's cock and looking up at him under his stark white eyelashes, amber irises sparkling in the light streaming through the window on Emhyr's side of the bed.

He was beautiful. Emhyr was sure he could live a hundred more years and never quite get enough of simply _looking_ at Geralt.

He held Geralt's gaze as the witcher slid his lips down the hard length of his cock, agonisingly slow, just _daring_ Emhyr to thrust into his mouth, take him roughly, and lose himself.

If Geralt thought he could win _this_ easily, he would soon learn differently.

With the hand not tangled in Geralt's hair, Emhyr reached out to stroke the witcher's throat with the tips of his fingers, feeling the muscles there work as he sucked and swallowed.

Geralt moaned around him, his gaze never falling away from Emhyr's eyes even as his eyelids drooped with contentment.

A wave of possessiveness swelled in the pit of Emhyr's stomach, rising up and lapping at his heart. The urge to call Geralt _his_ was one he'd always tempered, saved for occasions when it could be taken in jest, as something said in the heat of the moment which Emhyr did not sincerely mean.

Now, the words clawed at his throat, the urge to claim ownership fighting to escape him as his beautiful witcher sucked his cock and stared into his eyes and looked at him as though he was currently the centre of his world.

“Stop,” Emhyr pronounced carefully, easing his grip on Geralt's hair. Too much more and he would not have been able to bring himself to do it.

Winning was by no means imperative--Geralt only ever asked for things Emhyr was happy to do for him--but he still _wanted_ to win.

He was toying with the idea of asking Geralt, this time, for one of the affection-soaked favours Geralt himself was so fond of.

A plaintive sound vibrated around Emhyr's cock, but Geralt backed off as agreed, the head falling from his lips with an obscenely wet pop.

“I can't believe you stopped me,” Geralt murmured, his voice deliciously rough.

“I still plan to win,” Emhyr said. “My response to your proximity notwithstanding.”

He'd never been able to resist Geralt in the morning. Not his lazy smile or his open, sleepy vulnerability. Few people were brave enough to spend the night in Emhyr's bed--Geralt had been the first in a very long time.

And to do it _without_ the excuse of being too sated to move…

Geralt had been sincere, Emhyr knew. He could not help but see genuine affection in his actions.

But that had been enough to tilt Emhyr violently toward saying something he may not have entirely meant.

He wanted to think that he loved Geralt, but he could not be sure that love wasn't simply shorthand for _wished to have exclusively for himself._

That was how all this had started, after all.

And if Geralt offered his heart and only found Emhyr's hand extended to take it in return, then Emhyr would lose him forever. Geralt had given his heart like that more often than Emhyr had started a war, and with consequences generally less favourable.

He would not allow it again.

“So about this use you have for me…” Geralt asked.

Of course. Emhyr had been surprised he hadn’t pressed on the subject the previous night.

“I plan to abdicate at midwinter,” Emhyr said.

Geralt stared at him, wide-eyed.

“Ciri is more than ready for power and capable of beginning a new era for the empire in a way I am not,” Emhyr defended, though he knew that Geralt wasn’t objecting. Simply _surprised_.

“I don’t disagree,” Geralt said carefully. “I just didn’t expect to _live_ to see you abdicate.”

“I have spoken of this plan to you before,” Emhyr responded.

“Yeah, but… as a theoretical thing we both knew you weren’t really planning on. So what’s changed?”

“Grandchildren,” Emhyr said.

Geralt’s eyes widened further. “Ciri’s _pregnant_?” he asked.

Emhyr wet his lips. “Not yet.” He cleared his throat delicately. “Allow me to explain. She believes she was being subtle, but she made efforts to determine exactly what a concubine was and whether or not she was entitled to one, as well as whether or not I approved of the idea.”

“Well, you can’t _not_ approve,” Geralt said wryly. “But… Ciri?”

“You are making the mistake she made,” Emhyr said. “A concubine is merely a spouse who does not have equal legal standing, whereas an actual _marriage_ would elevate her intended quite dramatically. Obviously, an empress has good reason not to wish anyone to be able to challenge her power. Cirilla is a very smart woman, though perhaps less callous than I would be tempted to be about it. She wishes to use it as a trial period. Historically, I have found it very useful to have someone loyal on hand to be an extremely desirable spouse for people who needed to have an eye kept on them.”

Geralt blinked, and then blinked again, opening his mouth and then closing it.

“You are _not_ in a position to make judgements,” Emhyr said.

“You married off your concubines to act as _spies_ ,” Geralt said, clearly not impressed by Emhyr’s political cunning.

“Which is why I have never even considered offering you the position,” Emhyr responded, ignoring Geralt’s indignance at the idea. “I do not like to think of the riot I would start if people believed you might be available to them if they made the correct promises.”

“Also because I’d _kill_ you,” Geralt said.

“For making the offer?” Emhyr raised an eyebrow. “That would be quite the rejection. But we have gotten very far from the point.”

“Right, yeah, Ciri’s getting not-married. To who?”

“You _must_ have noticed.”

“Morvran?” Geralt asked, wrinkling his nose. “But he’s…”

“Quite charming when he wants to be,” Emhyr said. “Refined, and well-mannered, and perhaps a little more sentimental than the average Nilfgaardian of his station, a romantic, ambitious, and not at all unpleasant to look at unclothed.”

Geralt stared again, which Emhyr had at least expected this time.

“We have bathed together. It was all very civilised, and I _am_ allowed to look.”

“Sometimes I make the mistake of thinking you can’t surprise me anymore,” Geralt said. “And then we have a conversation about how you’re only not pursuing Morvran Voorhis yourself because Ciri’s interested.”

“Because I have a better offer,” Emhyr corrected. “He did try his hand once.”

“I need to lie down,” Geralt said, rolling over to the other side of the bed.

“I pretended not to notice,” Emhyr continued, turning onto his side to look at Geralt. “Though I will admit that curiosity almost overcame my better judgement.”

Geralt grabbed a pillow and covered his head with it. “I can never look him in the eye again.”

“I would have thought having something he didn’t would please you,” Emhyr said as neutrally as he could manage. It was a rare day when he had to fight not to laugh.

Although, the more time he spent with Geralt, the less rare those days became.

Happiness had always been something Emhyr had considered was for other people, but he could imagine having it for himself now, with grandchildren at his feet.

And Geralt at his side.

“Does Ciri know?” Geralt asked from beneath the pillow.

“I was moved to tell her the story when I realised she was growing close to him. I believe, if anything, it encouraged her.”

“She turned into me,” Geralt said, dismay in his voice.

“Quite,” Emhyr confirmed. “Which will do her no harm in Nilfgaard as long as she only bears children by way of men she is legally tied to. Or at least, can name one of them as the father.”

Geralt pressed the pillow more firmly over his head. “I can’t believe you made me think about Morvran naked,” he said.

“I merely mentioned that he has been naked in my presence. Your own imagination is to blame for the rest.”

Geralt’s only answer to that was a groan.

“In any case, this is relevant because this trade summit _must_ go our way. I do not want my pregnant daughter being forced to deal with the conniving, backstabbing dogs that run trade _within_ the empire. Our relationships with other nations are fairly stable, my hold on the locals is… less so.”

“They’re mad because war is expensive,” Geralt said, summing up the issue nicely.

Much as he _pretended_ not to care about politics, he did pay attention. Emhyr assumed it was like any other monster to him. Best to know everything he could learn, just in case he was ever called upon to slay it.

“Yes,” Emhyr said. “And now they wish to be compensated for their hardship by way of more favourable levies and trade laws.”

“Which you're not planning on giving them,” Geralt said, still hiding his face under the pillow.

“On the contrary,” Emhyr replied. “I plan on giving them the absolute bare minimum they will accept and not a scrap more. Which is where you come in. Do you think you could be convinced to remove the pillow?”

“Depends,” Geralt said, muffled. “Are you gonna talk about what any of them look like naked?”

“I am not,” Emhyr promised. He had absolutely no desire to even _consider_ that himself.

He would cheerfully have ordered their assassinations if not for the instability it would cause and the risk that their positions would be filled with even less agreeable heirs.

Geralt removed the pillow and shoved it under his head, flopping down dramatically.

“So what exactly do you want me to do?” Geralt asked.

“Merely listen,” Emhyr said. “And avoid making it obvious that you understand.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Did you go to all the trouble of teaching me Nilfgaardian so I could be a _spy_?”

Emhyr had been afraid, when he conceived this plan, that Geralt would think that.

“I went to all the trouble of teaching you because you are a clever man who understands the value of knowledge, and I wished to share it with you,” Emhyr said, remembering Geralt's suggestion about honesty.

He decided not to mention how much he’d enjoyed the sense of closeness it had given him, of how often he’d wished he could tell Pavetta who he really was and share his culture with her. How being able to do that with Geralt filled that long-forgotten need in a way Emhyr hadn’t expected it to.

The first moment Emhyr had wanted to _share_ with Geralt was also the first moment, he now realised, when he’d been lost.

“This is simply an unexpected and unintended benefit of having done so,” he continued. “Obviously, I can only _ask_ you to do this. I will not bribe or cajole or pretend to you that it would accomplish anything other than making my life easier. Not least of all because if I must walk into a pit of vipers, I would prefer to have someone I may trust at my side.”

Emhyr was certain Geralt had come to understand all the ways in which being the emperor was perhaps the least desirable position in the empire. What he was _not_ certain of was whether Geralt’s affection for him would stretch to a tedious task for which his only reward would be Emhyr’s gratitude.

“I’ll do it,” Geralt said simply, much less put out than Emhyr had expected him to be.

“You will?” Emhyr asked.

“I will,” Geralt confirmed.

Clearly, he was not about to elaborate on his reasons.

“You will be readily accepted at my side,” Emhyr said. “Since it has been outright impossible to curb the rumours of our attachment to each other. They have been getting quite out of hand, in fact.”

“Are you attached to me?” Geralt asked, grinning broadly.

Emhyr sighed. “I would be very put out if you died,” he admitted. “And you are, as such, forbidden from doing so.”

“If I’m not allowed to die, you’re not allowed to die,” Geralt said in response. “You’ve completely spoiled me for sex with anyone else.”

A soft, warm bloom of smugness opened up in the depths of Emhyr’s chest. Alongside it, a surge of affection made his heartbeat speed up.

“I am pleased to know that my efforts have not been entirely in vain, then,” Emhyr said.

“How out of hand?” Geralt asked belatedly.

“If gossip is to be believed, I will abdicate within the year for the specific purpose of moving to the countryside with you in tow,” Emhyr reported, his voice perfectly even on the outside, but the faintest hint of pressure curling around his heart. “So that I might better enjoy your reportedly ample and unique talents in bed.”

The rumours had seen through him before he’d managed to see through himself, and though they did not begin to hint at the full extent of his plans or reasoning, they had predicted exactly what he would have liked to do with his time.

Evidently, in this regard, his usual subtlety had failed him.

“So what part of the countryside are we moving to?”

Emhyr raised an eyebrow.

“What?” Geralt asked. “You just told me I get to have grandchildren. I’m not letting you hog them.”

“Of course,” Emhyr said, pretending to himself that he was not excited by the idea that Geralt had implicitly consented to his plans. “I had not reached a decision about a summer home yet. If you are settled on joining me, I will consider your input.”

By which he meant he would give Geralt whatever he wanted, because Emhyr’s own wants were simple. A place where Ciri and her children would be welcome and comfortable whenever they chose to visit. Even, perhaps, where he could take on some of the work of raising and teaching them himself.

“Long as there’s a bed and a bath, I don’t really care.”

Emhyr snorted. Geralt was indeed easily pleased in some ways.

And in others, outright impossible.

Materially, a warm bed, regular meals, and the opportunity to bathe comfortably were all the witcher ever asked for. But personally, he expected as much of people as Emhyr himself did. Perhaps more.

Emhyr was never quite sure how he managed to measure up to Geralt’s expectations, but he did wish to continue doing so. There was something addictive about his approval.

“I believe both of those things go without saying,” Emhyr murmured.

He wanted to reach out and stroke his fingers through Geralt’s hair.

In fact, he wanted Geralt’s head in his lap while he read letters and received reports and drank tea.

They had never had a morning like this before. Not in all the time they’d been engaged in whatever it was they were engaged in, a relationship Emhyr wasn’t quite sure there was a word for in either of their tongues.

Companions, perhaps. People had taken to referring to Geralt as his _companion_ , for lack of another polite word. It never quite seemed to cover the full extent of what Geralt was to him. What he _wanted_ Geralt to be to him.

Perhaps there was no need to have a single word for it. Perhaps it was complicated, like the two of them were complicated.

“We must eventually rise,” Emhyr said. “Our hostess is undoubtedly fretting.”

Geralt sighed heavily, but rolled to the other side of the bed and stood, gloriously naked in the light streaming through the window.

“I promised I’d let you tell me how to dress, so… just waiting on orders.”

Emhyr smirked.

***

Outside of the capital, the rest of Nilfgaard looked… basically the same, Geralt realised, as they rolled through made roads and looked out at clean streets full of relatively happy people just living their lives. Geralt hadn’t had a lot of interactions with the Nilfgaardian peasantry, but everything he’d seen of them suggested they were just like everyone else.

As a bonus, they tended to stare in awe of him, rather than outright disgust. He wasn’t stupid--he knew some people, even in Nilfgaard, had come to the conclusion that witchers were scum--but most of them just looked at him like he was a unicorn.

Or maybe a dragon.

Loud, boisterous laughter and a single shout of surprise drew Geralt’s attention, but all he saw was a crowd of young men… doing what young men did, mostly. They seemed to be having a good time.

“There is a well-regarded academy here,” Emhyr said. “And all that brings with it.”

“Students,” Geralt responded, understanding immediately. “If only their tight-laced parents knew what their kids were getting up to.”

“Scholarship at this particular institution tends to be for the merchant class,” Emhyr said. “Or the children of career scholars. They are perfectly aware what their children get up to. They consider it the main benefit of sending them in the first place. To make useful friends.”

Geralt hummed, looking out the carriage window at the passing city, sure they must have been near their destination by now. His legs were starting to cramp from all the sitting down, but if he complained, he _knew_ Emhyr would point out that portals existed.

“You are restless,” Emhyr said, as though he'd read Geralt's mind. “We are only minutes from our destination, if it helps.”

Something about his tone made Geralt's heart clench. Emhyr was being _gentle_ with him, treating him with care and attention he wasn't really used to.

Not that he was ever callous, but… he'd been less attentive. Geralt didn't know what to _do_ with all this extra affection.

Except roll around happily in it, that was. He could barely contain the impulse to just go and sit with his head in Emhyr's lap and let himself be petted.

“Thanks,” Geralt said. “Now might be a good time to warn me about how I'm supposed to act around you.”

“As though you have every right to stand by my side,” Emhyr said. “Because regardless of anyone's reaction, you _do_ have that right.”

“So this is… a _thing_ , in Nilfgaard?”

“The full spectrum of our precise relationship is in fact so unusual that I am yet to come up with a satisfactory word for what you are to me,” Emhyr explained.

Geralt's stomach swooped, though he wasn't entirely sure why. He'd often wondered what they _were_ , and hearing that there wasn't really an answer was… strange.

“However,” Emhyr continued. “ _I_ am entitled to your presence, because I am still the emperor. They would not stop me from bringing whoever I chose with me. You come with the added benefit of being perceived as too stupid to be a meaningful threat.”

“Hey!” Geralt objected.

“Which you and I both know isn't true,” Emhyr responded. “But it benefits us for them to believe that I am primarily interested in bedding you, and you are primarily interested in a comfortable retirement.”

“If I ask what you _are_ primarily interested in, you'll change the subject, won't you?”

“I believe we’re about to stop,” Emhyr said.

Unfortunately, before Geralt could even point out how weak that subject change was, the carriage slowed to a halt.

***

Geralt took his role very seriously, as far as his role was to seem harmless and decorative, present only because Emhyr couldn’t go even a few days without fucking him.

He did so by lying on the long chaise Emhyr was perched on and letting his head rest in Emhyr’s lap. Every now and then, he shifted his head against Emhyr’s hand, reminding him to go back to stroking his hair.

Emhyr had never owned a cat, but he was under the impression that this was exactly what cat ownership was like.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” he said softly, not overly worried that anyone would hear him, but wishing to seem as though he was having an intimate conversation.

“Almost fell asleep a couple of times,” Geralt responded. “We should set your office up like this.”

Emhyr huffed, though the idea wasn’t entirely without appeal.

“See what you meant about the vipers,” Geralt added, stretching out and arching his back. There was a lull in the meeting, so they had a little time to share information. “They’re not happy that you seem to be paying more attention to me than them.”

“Good,” Emhyr murmured. “They are not supposed to be happy.”

“I have a whole bunch of new vocabulary words to ask you about later,” Geralt said. “They sounded… colourful.”

Emhyr pursed his lips. On the one hand, he did not like the thought of letting an insult against Geralt go--not because Geralt could not handle an insult or two, but because they had no right to offer them and should not have felt they could get _away_ with doing so in front of the emperor himself.

On the other hand, letting on that they had been overheard would show his hand, and the advantage Geralt’s presence gave him. Not to mention the fact that Geralt _did_ understand them.

Quite a few people were under the impression that Nilfgaardian was too complex a language for a northerner to grasp, especially one so dull as a common mercenary. Quite a few people also believed that Emhyr was simply being a sentimental old fool about a man who, though an accomplished warrior, had little else to recommend him.

None of them were fit to polish Geralt’s boots, as far as Emhyr was concerned.

“I’m not telling you who said what,” Geralt spoke up before Emhyr could even consider saying anything. “Before you start planning executions.”

“I would have been subtler than that,” Emhyr protested, though his mind _had_ turned decidedly toward punishments appropriate for the situation.

“I’m uncomfortable when someone _isn’t_ insulting me,” Geralt said.

“That isn’t the point. By insulting _you_ , they also insult me.”

“I have terrible news about the things people say about you,” Geralt responded.

Emhyr rolled his eyes. “I am perfectly aware, and most of them are true. But it is one thing to say them in general, and another to say them to my face. One is an expected result of being in a position of power, the other is a challenge to my authority.”

“I think your nose is fine, for the record,” Geralt said. “And I know for a fact that you don’t let me use you as a footstool.”

“You have misunderstood that remark, I think.” Emhyr sighed, stroking his fingers through Geralt’s hair. “It is an idiom implying that you have the ultimate authority over me.”

Emhyr did not, ever, wish to test this theory. He was afraid that if it came down to it, and Geralt strongly objected to a course of action he was about to take--objected in such a way that Emhyr feared losing him--then Geralt _would_ , ultimately, have the authority.

The thought of having lost this part of himself to another was terrifying, though he knew that it was simply an effect of caring what they thought. He would also not have acted against Ciri’s most dearly-held beliefs, for the same reason.

After so many years of answering to no one, it was strange to suddenly have _two_ people whose feelings he needed to consider. Strange, but grounding.

“Since you are currently using me as a pillow, they may have _some_ cause to think that I would be inclined to let you get away with anything.”

“You wanted me unthreatening,” Geralt said. “This is as unthreatening as I get. They don’t like looking me in the eyes.”

“Few people do,” Emhyr murmured. “Not, I think, because of their appearance, but because looking you in the eyes is difficult for a man who is not confident in his life choices. I have noticed that people fear being judged ill by you.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “You look me in the eyes all the time and I’ve glared at you plenty.”

“But ultimately, you are still here,” Emhyr said. “People fear being judged ill by me, as well.”

“Probably because they’re afraid you’ll execute them,” Geralt said.

“As they should be. But I do believe there is some inherent discomfort in having disappointed me, as well.”

“Yeah.” Geralt shifted again. “I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed in me.”

 _I could never be disappointed in you_ , Emhyr didn’t say.

It was more than concerning enough that he’d had the thought.

***

One thing Geralt had come to both love and respect about Nilfgaard was that they had food and eating all figured out. There was never anything restrained or overly formal about meals. Geralt wasn’t even sure they were clear on the concept of plates and they probably would have laughed if he’d tried to describe how they worked. No, everyone ate with their hands, and they didn’t hesitate over anything.

Even Emhyr seemed to relax a little while he ate, and made the occasional happy noise if something was particularly good. Geralt had learned quickly that stuffing your mouth and licking your fingers was _polite_ in Nilfgaard, and a compliment to the host, and that, at least, had been easy to get used to.

So after a long day of dealing with politics-- _voluntarily_ , which somehow made it worse--he was now following Emhyr to bed, and he barely even realised he’d done it until Emhyr was undressing in front of him and he was standing there like an idiot, his brain fried and his stomach full and no part of him particularly inclined to move.

But he’d done it without an invitation, and something about that felt… off.

Not least of all that Emhyr seemed to have taken it in his stride, like he just _expected_ that now.

“Today went well,” Emhyr began. “You have been invaluable. I would offer once again to demonstrate my appreciation, but…”

“Maybe a little?” Geralt interrupted as Emhyr paused.

He could have gone for some appreciation-showing. He didn’t need to _come_ , it was just…

Emhyr had been stroking his hair and paying attention to him all day, and for reasons Geralt never ever wanted to examine too closely, that was kind of a turn-on. He still didn’t plan on losing, but taking the edge off would have been nice.

A slow, dangerous smile lit up Emhyr’s face. “Of course,” he said, inclining his head just a little. “Undress.”

Geralt barely suppressed a shiver at that single word. Not so much the _word_ as the way Emhyr said it, his voice curling around the syllables like a barely-there caress, and if someone had told Geralt a year ago that one day he’d get hard instantly at the sound of Emhyr var Emreis’ voice, he would have laughed, but…

Well, his cock was pretty clear on what _it_ wanted.

“And while you undress,” Emhyr continued as Geralt scrambled to get his clothes off as quickly as he could without tearing them. “Consider what you’d like me to do for you.”

This time, Geralt couldn’t stop himself from shivering. Emhyr asked him what he wanted all the time--but while he already had Geralt at his mercy, pinned to the bed and usually being slowly fucked with a couple of fingers, and Geralt’s answer was some variation of _fuck me or I swear to every god listening I’ll set this bed on fire_.

Asking _before_ was new.

Geralt didn’t have the first idea what he wanted, especially if he wasn’t allowed to come.

“Anything you want to do with me,” he said eventually, not wanting to stand around like an idiot for longer than he had to. Besides, Emhyr was the one offering the reward. Emhyr was the one who _wanted_ to reward Geralt, and honestly, Geralt just wanted…

He wanted that feeling from earlier again, but he had no idea what to ask for to get it. He wanted more of the not-so-subtle claim being laid on him, the sense that Emhyr was telling the world that Geralt was _his_ , that he wasn’t ashamed of having him at his side. He wanted to feel, he realised, like Emhyr was proud to be seen with him.

Because so few people were, and because Emhyr cared so deeply about appearances, and because Geralt hadn’t forgotten that all this had started because Emhyr felt that Geralt made _him_ look good, and that had never happened before.

What he wanted was to be loved, and he couldn’t ask for that--wouldn’t ask for that--so it didn’t matter what Emhyr actually did. As long as he did something.

“Anything?” Emhyr asked, and it should have been accompanied by a raised eyebrow, but it wasn’t. Instead, there was a kind of breathlessness about it, like that was something _he_ wanted and hadn’t expected to get.

Which was more than enough to make Geralt curious.

“Anything,” he confirmed.

“Make yourself comfortable on the bed.” Emhyr nodded, busying himself with removing the rest of his clothes. He didn’t like to be dressed up once he was out of the public eye any more than Geralt did, and there was some part of Geralt that wondered what he’d be like in retirement.

Wearing less clothes would have been a good start.

By the time Geralt had settled, sinking deep into the soft bed, Emhyr was already striding over to him. The mattress dipped as he rested one knee on it, only leaning on the edge, reaching out and splaying a hand over Geralt’s chest.

For long moments, he seemed like he was on the edge of saying something, breath drawn in anticipation. Instead, though, he eventually climbed the rest of the way onto the bed, straddling Geralt’s hips and looking down at him.

The hand on Geralt’s chest slid up to his shoulder, fingers curling around it as Emhyr leaned in, holding Geralt’s gaze. His eyes softened when they were close like this, warmth shining in them that almost no one else saw, and Geralt couldn’t help a happy sigh as their lips pressed together. After a full day of having his hair and neck stroked, his scalp scratched, and Emhyr pretending to ignore everyone else in favour of paying attention to Geralt, he needed this.

Based on the grip Emhyr suddenly had on his thigh, _he_ needed this, too.

“I wonder how much you might allow,” Emhyr murmured, breaking off to kiss his way along Geralt’s jawline, nuzzle his ear, nip his way along the tender skin of Geralt’s throat--something he would have allowed from _very_ few people. Emhyr knew that. It was why he did it.

“You’d be surprised,” Geralt answered belatedly. If Emhyr wanted to fuck him, he wasn’t about to say no. _Someone_ had to lose the wager, and the loser usually won anyway.

“Doubtful.” Emhyr’s voice vibrated against the hollow of Geralt’s throat, a hint of amusement playing around the word. His hand moved from Geralt’s hip to his belly, laying a fraction of an inch from Geralt’s cock, the pad of his thumb just _barely_ brushing the shaft. “Fortunately for you, you have chosen to allow whatever _I_ want.”

Fortunately?

The way Emhyr said it didn’t fill Geralt with confidence about his chances of being flipped over and fucked.

“And what _I_ want,” Emhyr said, shuffling his way down Geralt’s body, the heat of his breath ghosting over Geralt’s skin as he travelled down the length of his torso, pausing with his lips poised a mere inch above the head of Geralt’s cock.

Okay, yeah, this was good, too. Definitely an acceptable option.

Emhyr veered off at the last moment, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s hip instead.

“Is a good night’s sleep,” Emhyr finished, rolling away from him with practised ease and leaving Geralt cold without the heat of his body hovering over him.

 _What_?

No.

No no no.

“I’ll let you win,” Geralt promised, even though his rational mind knew that for Emhyr, that was the opposite of an enticement. He liked to win, but he didn’t like to be handed a victory without earning it.

“I’m sure you will understand how embarrassing it is for me to admit that I could not guarantee I would, even if you intended to allow it,” Emhyr mumbled, the edges of his words soft and round, so unlike his normal sharpness.

Not only did Geralt understand, he was shocked Emhyr _would_ admit it.

“Are you ill?” Geralt asked, his mind suddenly racing. If everything going on right now was because there was something _wrong_ with Emhyr, something he hadn’t bothered to tell anyone, not even _Geralt…_

“Calm yourself,” Emhyr said. “You will not be rid of me so easily.”

Geralt turned to glare at him, not in the mood for jokes right now. He was _worried_ , dammit.

“If I am honest with you,” Emhyr said after a moment. “I find you begin to panic.”

Geralt blinked.

Right, yeah. He was definitely doing that.

But then Emhyr usually _wasn’t_ honest with him--not like this. He didn’t lie anymore, he’d learned not to, but he also didn’t just… tell Geralt everything, either.

So hearing him just talk about how he felt was a little alarming.

“Well, if you keep doing it, I’ll get used to it,” Geralt said, his heartbeat beginning to slow again. He hadn’t felt the rush in his ears until it’d started to subside, hadn’t realised how upset he was at the thought of losing this until he’d been reassured.

Unfortunately, no matter how much he hadn’t intended to _say_ he was in love with Emhyr… he still _was_.

“This is hard for you,” Geralt continued after a pause, putting the pieces together for himself.

“Hard is not the word I would choose. Wearing, perhaps. I have but one chance to get it right, and if I fail, I will not be the one to suffer the consequences.”

“Ciri will,” Geralt finished for him. “She’s tougher than you think she is.”

“Believe me, I am aware that she is both stronger and more competent than I am, or _will_ be at the very least,” Emhyr said. “Which is why I would choose to leave her with as little mess to clean up as possible. I am yet to earn her respect.”

“That’s not true,” Geralt said. He’d talked to Ciri about this.

Obviously, Emhyr hadn’t.

“You think not?” Emhyr asked, finally meeting Geralt’s eyes again.

“I know not,” Geralt said evenly. “She’s in awe of you. She’s afraid she can never do the job the way you do it.”

Emhyr hummed. “I must impress upon her that she is _not_ to do it the way I’ve done it,” Emhyr said. “For her own sake and everyone else’s.”

“That’s not what she means. She watches you handle a dozen tiny things all at once and have them all come out your way like life is a giant chess board and you’re playing both sides yourself.”

“Fully half of the plays I make go awry,” Emhyr said. “I simply do not let on that this has happened until I’ve solved the problem.”

“You’re terrible at asking for help,” Geralt said. “You take everything on without support, and Ciri sees that and wonders how the hell she’s gonna manage. She’s _always_ had friends and allies she could count on.”

“And she may continue to do so, since it is so easy for her to attract loyalty,” Emhyr said. “I have… rather more difficulty.”

“Well…” Geralt said, hesitating before he finished his sentence. Maybe _this_ was too close to _I love you_ , too, but if Emhyr was in the mood to be honest…

“You’ve got me,” he said eventually. “Not sure how much that counts for.”

Silence.

Just like last time.

Geralt swallowed, mentally preparing himself to get up, dress, and leave. He wasn’t sure he _had_ a room here--he hadn’t thought to ask--but he could find somewhere else to sleep.

“It counts for a great deal,” Emhyr spoke up, just barely above a whisper. “I consider myself very lucky to have you.”

Stifling a sigh of relief, Geralt relaxed back into the mattress. Maybe that was okay, then. Loyalty was fine.

He was vaguely aware that he was still lying on what was traditionally Emhyr’s side of the bed, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to move. If Emhyr wanted it, he could come and get it.

Especially after leaving Geralt hanging _and_ making him worry.

***

Emhyr had woken wrapped around Geralt, holding him close the way a child would a favourite toy, and perhaps it wasn’t the _first_ time it had happened, but it was, to his mind, the most damning.

Geralt had come to his bed--and stayed there--two nights in a row without the enticement of sex, had taken being denied in his stride, and had remained afterward and even offered concern and consolation.

And _loyalty_.

In general, Emhyr was accustomed to setting his feelings aside and considering them from a reasonable distance at a more convenient moment. In this, he did not have that luxury. _Could_ not have that luxury, since they threatened, once again, to overwhelm him.

Geralt had that effect, and only months of contact had inured Emhyr to it, and now he had offered too much of his own heart and Geralt _had_ held his hand out for it, but not to take. Not to keep as a prize.

To defend. To make himself responsible for the care of.

And Emhyr was not certain he was even capable of loving like that, but the temptation to simply accept it from Geralt was strong. He could afford to. This close to retirement, surely, a single weakness would do him no harm.

Another, perhaps more rational part of his mind suggested that kind of thinking was exactly how a ruler became the subject of a coup.

Or perhaps more cynical.

At this point in Emhyr’s life, it was nearly impossible to tell. Cynicism was almost always the most rational kind of thought.

But Geralt brought optimism with him everywhere he chose to hang his swords, and Emhyr was not wholly immune to that.

Suddenly, the witcher in question appeared as if from nowhere and dropped himself in Emhyr’s lap. Emhyr barely had time to catch up with what was happening before he was pulled into a searing kiss, open-mouthed and insistent.

“I have some information for you,” Geralt murmured against his lips, which was perhaps the most attractive thing he’d ever said.

Aside from being excellent company and eager and responsive in bed, Geralt made a wonderful ally.

“Perhaps I ought to hear it in private?” Emhyr asked. “I believe our brief absence would be understood to have everything to do with your sudden display of desire.”

“Still trying to win that wager,” Geralt smirked. “I figure my chances improve if you’re happy with me.”

Emhyr snorted, though he could not deny that the thought of getting what he wanted--both in terms of this summit, and Geralt’s undivided attention--had a predictable effect on him.

“We shall see.”

***

“Oh fuck yes,” Geralt growled into the pillow beneath him, every nerve ending in his entire body lighting up as Emhyr’s cock slid inside him for the first time in what felt like _months_.

And okay, it was only the fifth day. Emhyr had avoided him for two before they left. He’d gone longer.

But not recently. He’d gotten _used_ to ending more than half his days satisfyingly fucked. Emhyr really had spoiled him.

“I love the way you do this when you're in a good mood,” Geralt said as he fought to catch his breath.

He _also_ loved the way Emhyr did it when he was in a bad mood, but that didn’t seem like a helpful thing to encourage.

Besides, right now, Emhyr was in a _great_ mood. When Geralt had told him everything he’d overheard, his eyes had lit up like Geralt had never seen before. Part of him suspected that _most_ people on the receiving end of that look suffered a lot before they died.

It was probably bad that knowing that didn’t make it any less hot.

Emhyr curled his hand around the back of Geralt’s neck, putting just the right amount of pressure on it to let him know he was being held in place. He could break the hold, and they both knew that if it came down to it he’d have little trouble sending Emhyr flying across the room.

But he still _liked_ this, and he liked it when Emhyr did it with so much certainty that Geralt would let him, because that was more trust than he managed to have with most people. Emhyr trusted Geralt _wouldn’t_ throw him across the room for this.

As always, the way Emhyr rocked his hips was painfully slow to start with, and Geralt doubted there was much he could do to encourage him to speed up. Not that he really wanted to. Being fucked slowly and thoroughly and maybe for an hour or so would have been nice right about now, though Geralt knew that wasn’t going to happen--eventually, Emhyr would have to _act_ on his new information, and he only had so much time to do it.

The fact that he was seeing to Geralt _first_ was as much a shock as it was yet another turn-on.

Emhyr’s fingers trailed along his side, tickling his ribs and then ghosting over his stomach before curling around Geralt’s cock. His grip was sure as ever, right on the border of too hard, riding the edge of pain with all the expertise that came from careful study. Because Emhyr _had_ studied him, and he knew Geralt’s body down to the last inch by now, and he never hesitated to take advantage.

A needy moan tore free of Geralt’s throat, his hips rocking back to meet Emhyr’s thrusts, the whole bed swaying gently under the two of them.

 _Damn_ this was good.

“You can keep doing this all day if you want,” Geralt murmured, relaxing into the rhythm.

That earned him a soft, warm hum, Emhyr leaning forward, brushing his nose against the back of Geralt's neck, pressing a kiss to the top of his shoulders.

“I must attend to other matters. You will hold out,” Emhyr said, and it wasn't so much an order as a statement of fact. Geralt _would_ hold out, because he was just starting to really get this delayed gratification thing.

He _wanted_ Emhyr to fuck him all day and not let him come until sunset, and he planned on asking for that when he won.

As if Emhyr had read his thoughts--and Geralt was starting to think he _could_ read them, the same way he knew when people were lying--his hand moved away from Geralt's cock, moving to wrap around his thigh instead. Holding him in place for a few rough, hard thrusts that left him breathless and panting, cock throbbing, thighs trembling with the effort of holding himself up.

 _This_ was the best part of sex with Emhyr, these strange moments where everything was a little too much and the world seemed to drop away around him. No more sensory noise, no hyper-awareness of every tiny thing happening within earshot. Nothing but the touch of skin-on-skin, the sound of both their heartbeats, and the absolute certainty that Emhyr would take care of him.

Emhyr took care of those people who were _his_ , and Geralt loved it every time he made it clear that he was among that number.

Time fell away as though it had simply ceased to exist, every moment distorted, condensed down to feeling and pleasure, and Geralt let his eyes fall closed.

“I am grateful,” Emhyr murmured by his ear, thrusts moving from slow and smooth to hard and sudden, erratic paused between them. Geralt's heartbeat sped up, his mind scrambling to predict the next spike of pleasure and always being surprised.

“Grateful for your help today, grateful that you chose to accompany me, and grateful that, after all this time, you are still so eager to grace my bed.”

It was _really_ unfair that Emhyr could still do full sentences, because all Geralt could manage in response was a strangled moan.

Probably just as well. The way his heart swelled in his chest told him he would have said something stupid again, while he was awash with affection and _felt_ so loved he could burst.

That was enough. Feeling this way was enough, and he needed to be satisfied with it or he'd lose the best thing he ever had. And it was ridiculous that that _thing_ was Emhyr var Emreis’ affection, but there it was.

Geralt grunted as another spike of pleasure rolled through him, _almost_ pushing him clear over the edge. He panted, trying to drag himself back, but the fall felt inevitable now, every thrust of Emhyr's hips nudging him closer until he was scrambling for ground, his own hold on his control crumbling under his feet.

A knock on the door rang out clear and sharp, breaking through the trance Geralt had fallen into.

To his dismay, Emhyr stopped immediately.

He snorted next to Geralt's ear. “Just when I was so close to winning,” he murmured. “Duty calls.”

Geralt made an unhappy sound. He wouldn't have cared if he lost just now, and he winced as Emhyr pulled out, another little surge of pleasure making his cock twitch.

“You have given me the power to abdicate as planned,” Emhyr whispered as he eased Geralt to the bed. “And your reward will be my undivided attention once I have done so.”

Geralt gasped at the thought, barely aware of Emhyr throwing on a robe and going to the door as he rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling.

A bubble of happiness growing in the pit of his stomach made his whole body feel too small to contain the feeling.

He curled his toes and flexed his fingers, grinning up into the cool darkness above him, already eagerly anticipating Emhyr's return.

***

By the time Emhyr had finished hashing out the last detail and standing over the shoulder of the last signatory, one hand holding the man in place to encourage him to go along with his peers and not argue further, dawn was threatening to break.

Something fluttered in his chest when he found Geralt still there, sleeping on the bed.

Given the choice, Emhyr would have come back from every late night to see Geralt waiting for him, even in sleep.

The fact that he had chosen to share a bed the previous two nights had been a surprising source of joy and wonder for Emhyr. Perhaps Geralt _could_ yet be tempted to become his permanent bedmate.

Perhaps something between them had changed, and Geralt was now content to throw in his lot with Emhyr, and stay with him.

No. He was getting ahead of himself, and he had not earned the right to treat this as such a certain thing.

But it was very, very welcome after all the trials of the day.

“How'd it go?” Geralt mumbled from the bed as Emhyr began to undress.

“Gratifyingly well,” Emhyr said. “Go back to sleep,” he added, an offer rather than a command, not wishing to keep his witcher awake.

“Too late, awake now,” Geralt said, though his voice was still heavy, and Emhyr was sure he would need little convincing on the point.

Perhaps he was simply waiting to be joined?

The thought made an indecent thrill of excitement skitter around Emhyr's belly.

“I'm afraid a full report will need to wait until morning,” Emhyr said, barely stifling a yawn. “Or until after I've slept, I should say. But things have gone our way. Thanks in no small part to you.”

Geralt made a soft, pleased sound in response to that. “So you're coming to bed, right?”

The words rang in Emhyr's ears. Even away from the palace, this was _his_ bed.

But Geralt speaking of it as though it was naturally a shared space left him reeling. How strange to be so moved by such a small thing. To have his ears ring at the magnitude of it, to have laughter--pure joy--well up in his chest.

Emhyr was settled now. He would not be happy without Geralt at his side, in his bed, Geralt's heart tucked into his chest alongside his own, the way he knew his was tucked in Geralt's.

And perhaps Geralt could hold and had held many more hearts, and perhaps Emhyr would never love _quite_ like he did, but he would do it with the desperate devotion he so dearly wished to. He would, because he knew now that he _could._

“Immediately if not sooner,” Emhyr responded, crossing the room and climbing in under the covers without pause.

His heart was pounding, and he knew Geralt could hear it, but it hardly mattered if he understood how much this meant to Emhyr now.

Tomorrow, he could be honest.

***

Geralt had initially climbed into Emhyr’s lap in the carriage to annoy him--his favourite pastime when they weren’t actively fucking--and because he _still_ had a wager to win, and they’d be back in the palace tonight, and while he could have just waited it out and won by default, he would have preferred to win by making Emhyr come.

Unfortunately, he was just now realising that he’d miscalculated.

Emhyr was ignoring him. Ignoring a fully grown man sitting in his lap while they travelled beautifully-made Nilfgaardian roads with barely a rock to roll over, his head turned to the side to read a letter.

Every now and again, he’d pause, pull Geralt in for a kiss that seared its way down his spine and left him barely holding back a whimper, and then…

Go _straight back to reading_.

The worst part of it was that he could feel Emhyr hard against him, so he knew that physically, he was having the intended effect. Somehow, though, he’d just… forgotten how much control, how much _outright indifference_ Emhyr was capable of when he wanted to be. He’d been indulgent, even affectionate while they’d been away, and Geralt had adjusted to that without a second thought.

It was tempting to wonder whether Emhyr had done that on _purpose_ , so Geralt would forget, just so he could do this now. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d put a plan like that into place and executed it with a level of finesse that--Geralt had to be honest here--was the biggest turn-on in all of his existence.

On the one hand, Geralt might have been giving him too much credit.

On the other hand, it was difficult, actually, to give Emhyr too much credit for planning to make Geralt’s life--or other things--hard.

“Are you doing this on purpose?” Geralt asked.

“I’m afraid you will have to specify what part of my behaviour you’re inquiring after,” Emhyr said, not even glancing away from the letter he was reading.

“Ignoring me!” Geralt said. “And building up to it by letting me forget that you can do that just so you could torture me now.”

That, finally, got Emhyr’s attention. His brow furrowed in a frown, neatly-trimmed eyebrows drawing together. “I do not entirely follow your line of reasoning, but I suspect your wonderfully fertile imagination is getting away from you.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes.

If Emhyr _had_ planned this, then he’d be smirking. Or at least not-smirking, in that infuriating way he had of communicating the essence of a smirk with only his gaze.

“I had also not intended to ignore you,” Emhyr continued. “And I sincerely apologise if I have made you feel neglected.”

_Apologise._

Emhyr _apologised_?

“Who are you and what have you done with the emperor?” Geralt asked, only mostly joking.

The eyeroll he got in response was definitely a var Emreis eyeroll. Ciri’s was exactly the same.

“Ciri has made the argument that apologies among family should be offered more readily than outside of it. I am practicing. And in any case, I do see that the fault was mine. I have misinterpreted your actions.”

Geralt blinked.

He wasn’t sure how much room there was to _misinterpret_ your lover sitting on your lap.

“I had thought you were interested in closeness,” Emhyr said. “Based on your newfound willingness to share my bed.”

Newfound…

What?

“You don’t invite me other than when we’re fucking,” Geralt said, annoyed that he was explaining this to Emhyr.

He knew, didn't he? He _had_ to know that Geralt would have moved into his rooms and curled up in _their_ bed and that it'd stopped being about sex for him a long time ago, right?

Emhyr knew everything else, how could he not know _this?_

“I had taken the invitation to be implied,” Emhyr said after a moment, uncertain.

 _Uncertain_.

He didn't know.

Geralt climbed off Emhyr’s lap and retreated to the other side of the carriage, embarrassed and unsure himself.

“I was mistaken,” Emhyr said, frowning again and pretending to focus on the letter he was still holding, as though Geralt hadn't moved. “I am not accustomed to making so many mistakes at once.”

“You’re the _emperor_ ,” Geralt defended, and even to himself it sounded ridiculous now that he was saying it aloud. “I can't just wander into your bedchamber.”

“Forgive me for assuming that as you have never cared before, you would not have begun to _after_ the gap between our social stations closed significantly.”

Geralt swallowed.

Crap.

Emhyr had expected him to misbehave the normal amount, and Geralt had been _behaving_ because…

Because he wanted to stay. Because more than anything, he wanted this chance at having a family, weird and awkward as it was.

His whole life was weird and awkward, why shouldn't his little family be the same?

“Emhyr, I…” he began, and then stopped himself.

What could he say?

“You asked what I wanted from you, primarily,” Emhyr said. “And you were correct that I would change the subject, because at the time, I did not have an answer for you. I do now.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, waiting to hear what Emhyr had to say.

“I want you as an equal,” Emhyr said, softly, as though he thought Geralt would take that badly.

All Geralt could manage in response was to let his mouth fall open in shock, so maybe he was _right_.

Because he knew what Emhyr meant. He remembered the discussion about Ciri, about marriage, about how incredibly stupid it would have been for _her_ to have a real equal, and…

Emhyr wanted that.

Even though it was stupid. Ruinous, maybe.

Hell, even _after_ he retired… former emperor was still a position of power and influence.

And he wanted Geralt… there. By his side. Standing as his equal.

“I do not necessarily expect you to agree to formalities,” Emhyr said, and then paused before he continued. “I do not necessarily expect you to agree at all.”

A lump formed in Geralt’s throat. He tried to swallow around it, come up with a response, but he couldn’t make his tongue work, let alone his mind.

“But you have asked for honesty from me, and I no longer wish to conceal the true depth of my feelings in any case,” Emhyr continued. “This is my truth. I would have you, all of you, for the remainder of my life. But I’m afraid that I have nothing more to offer than myself, and I’m not sure that would be enticement enough for you to take on the responsibility.”

Geralt opened his mouth to say that Emhyr was enough, that he’d never wanted anything else, that he didn’t give a damn about _what_ he was, only _who_ he was, but the words still wouldn’t come.

“I would prefer not to have an answer now,” Emhyr said. “Think on it. I am willing to pretend this conversation never happened if you would rather I hadn’t said anything.”

 _Oh, Emhyr_ , Geralt didn’t say, a wave of tenderness toward the other man washing over him.

Emhyr was a man who believed he was entitled to everything but deserving of nothing.

But the words--the words to tell Emhyr that it was all right for him to have feelings, that it was all right to want things, that he loved him and he’d only been keeping his distance because he was afraid of being too damned _much_ \--still wouldn’t come.

Silence fell between them, and Geralt’s stomach hurt.

Not only could he not make himself respond to that, he had no idea _how_.

***

When Geralt came to him that evening, Emhyr couldn’t even make himself hide his relief. He _knew_ he was looking at the witcher with open, naked adoration on his face, and he knew Geralt would see and understand it, but he had been too afraid that the fragile thing between them had finally shattered in the carriage this morning.

They had travelled in perfect silence thereafter, Geralt pretending to read his book, Emhyr pretending to read his correspondence.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” Geralt said.

This was not a surprise. If Geralt had thought any louder, he might as well have printed flyers.

“We’re starting again,” he announced.

Emhyr blinked at him. Starting again?

He didn’t have time to formulate the question before Geralt pounced, seizing his mouth with raw need and absolutely no gentleness. Hunger and lust and the scrape of teeth against his lip filled Emhyr’s mind, and _yes_ , this was good, this was what he wanted.

Unlike before, Geralt made no hint at _all_ that he might cede control of the kiss, his broad, callused hands framing Emhyr’s face, the warmth of them searing into his jaw, thumbs kneading at the spot where the muscles so often cramped when things were particularly not going Emhyr’s way.

The touch was a welcome relief after the harrowing experience of showing someone else his heart.

“I only ever take,” Geralt murmured against Emhyr’s lips.

He _what_?

No. No, it was Emhyr who took, who had never hesitated to grab anything Geralt would offer him with both hands, as entitled to his witcher as he felt to everything else in the world.

“Time I gave back,” he added, pushing Emhyr’s travelling cloak--still in place from their very late arrival--from his shoulders so that it pooled on the floor behind him, and perhaps another time Emhyr would have offered a rebuke, but…

Not now.

Not when he’d been so certain he’d lost this.

Geralt undressed him with all the care in the world, clever fingers finding buckles and clasps, the particular intricacies of Nilfgaardian tailoring another thing he’d mastered quickly. When motivated, he was a man with a mind so sharp he could easily have rivalled Emhyr at any kind of strategic thought. As long as he cared enough to do so, Geralt, Emhyr was certain, could have done _anything_.

He’d had that thought before, and examined it under the lens of his own affection for the man, and determined that it was objective truth rather than wishful thinking.

Geralt was in all the ways that mattered his equal, and in many others his better, and the fact that he had somehow not felt that between them was still a mystery to Emhyr.

He knew now, though. Every touch told Emhyr that something between them had changed, but not, he was beginning to see, for the worse.

Geralt kissed his way down Emhyr's body as he undressed him, finally falling to his knees as he removed Emhyr's boots and stripped him bare in one motion, leaving the remainder of his clothes to fall around his ankles.

Geralt had been in this position dozens of times before, and yet it was different now. He looked up at Emhyr with _intent_ in his eyes, not asking permission, but offering it.

Emhyr wet his lips, suddenly unsure what to do. The dynamic between them had just shifted again, monumentally and minutely at the same time.

After another moment, he reached out to thread his fingers into Geralt’s hair. Not the tight, greedy grip he was accustomed to, but something much softer.

Geralt smiled up at him. Not a smirk, not a grin--these things, Emhyr was used to seeing on his witcher’s face. A smile, gentle and warm, his strange eyes softening as it reached them, his face open and as close to vulnerable as either of them ever got.

A lump formed in Emhyr’s throat.

He had not _earned_ this. Nothing he’d done in his life should have entitled him to the love of this man, written all over his features as though it had been stamped there in bold red print. And yet he could see that he still _had_ it. Geralt had, clearly, come to a decision.

It felt like an important moment. Up until now, Emhyr was certain Geralt had stayed because nothing had yet prompted him to leave.

But in the light of this morning, of the way Emhyr had watched Geralt’s face changed as he realised they’d never quite been on the same page about what they were to each other, Emhyr had expected…

Well, he’d expected that the revelation might finally move Geralt to pack his saddlebags and go.

This was not that. It was quite the opposite.

And Emhyr had his answer, more surely than he could ever have hoped for.

He did not wish Geralt to remain by his side simply because the sex was satisfying.

He wished Geralt to remain at his side because he loved him.

“Come to bed,” he said, removing his hand from Geralt's hair as carefully as he could.

Geralt rose as gracefully as he'd dropped, still fully clothed, and for the first time, Emhyr reached out to him.

The first few fastenings were strange in reverse, forcing Emhyr to pause as he worked them out. He did not undress other people. They came to him already unclothed, or undressed themselves.

Geralt was different, and deserved to be treated differently. Emhyr could see now why he had not understood this to be a relationship between equals, but as he'd said, they were starting over.

“The wager?” Emhyr asked, untying the knot at the neck of Geralt's shirt.

He had gotten what he needed out of it, and did not mind admitting defeat if he had to.

“Got back to the palace without coming,” Geralt said. “That means I won, right?”

“I believe those were the terms,” Emhyr agreed. “What will you have from me?”

“Tell you after,” Geralt responded, letting his eyes fall closed. Clearly, he was enjoying this.

Emhyr would do it more often. He would undress Geralt with all the eager clumsiness he could manage as often as Geralt would allow, and he realised then what Geralt meant by _taking_.

But he was wrong. It was not that Geralt took. It was that Emhyr knew only how to give, how to avoid being in debt to someone with so much access to him, and this, again, was a mistake.

He would allow himself to take now, to have the things he had so dearly wanted, knowing that Geralt would do him no harm as a result.

He paused to hook his thumbs into the waistband of the leggings Geralt was wearing--that he had personally chosen for him.

This, for Emhyr, had been an act of love. Saving Geralt from himself--in this case, from the way people treated him when he wore the mismatched armour of a travelling mercenary.

And in turn, saving them from his own wrath by limiting the degree to which they were tempted to treat Geralt with less than the minimum appropriate respect.

Geralt would not have understood this. He would have laughed at the idea of needing any kind of protection from anyone's opinion, since he had never needed it before. But now he _did_ , and he would not grasp the full extent of the way an opinion--once expressed--could shape an empire until and unless it came to that.

So Emhyr simply took the brunt of his displeasure.

He should have realised just how sincere his feelings were before now, since he would not have done this for anyone else.

“I love it when you stop to think in the middle of something,” Geralt said, startling Emhyr enough to make him look up.

He was grinning, which was at least familiar, but he was no longer trying to hide the overwhelming warmth behind it.

“Black is too cold a colour for you,” Emhyr said after a moment. Black was an easy choice, a simple shorthand way to demonstrate that Geralt was _important_ , since he could not afford to wear it otherwise.

It had been necessary, in the beginning, to offer the people who surrounded them both this direct, obvious symbol of Geralt's newfound place in society. It saved awkward situations.

Emhyr knew the general shape of the less kind things people said about Geralt behind his back. As long as he never heard them directly, that was fine. People said much worse things about him.

But the moment they felt they could say them to Geralt's _face_ , action would have to be taken.

Geralt would not have agreed.

“Does this mean I finally get a say?” Geralt asked.

“As long as you will at least consider advice,” Emhyr said.

People understood, by now. They had stopped suggesting that Geralt was simply the passing fancy of an aging emperor. Or at least, they had stopped believing their suggestions would move Emhyr to act.

“All I want is a cut that has a little room to move,” Geralt said. “ _Your_ clothes aren't cut like this.”

Emhyr snorted. “That, you will have to take up with your seamstress. She thinks it would be a shame to obscure any of your lines.”

“Right,” Geralt said. “Without any encouragement at _all_ from my emperor.”

 _My_ emperor.

A wave of dizziness washed over Emhyr at the phrasing. Yes.

Yes, that was what he'd been so desperate to hear. That Geralt might lay claim to _him_ the way he felt the need to lay claim to Geralt.

“She required none,” Emhyr said, which was true. For everyone who had an unkind word to say about Geralt, there were five more people who'd quite fallen in love with him.

 _I am yours,_ Emhyr didn't say. _I will be yours until my bones are dust._

Not least of all because he was nearly certain the words were not his, that he'd read them in a poem once or something of the like.

But the sentiment...

“You're only half here,” Geralt said, concern in his voice. “Has something happened?”

Many dozens of things had happened. Too many to report without sounding like a madman, and all of them inside Emhyr’s head.

“I am merely tired,” Emhyr said, and then debated the second half of what he wanted to say.

A new start, Geralt had promised.

More honesty, then. He knew how much Geralt liked honesty, and offering it _had_ begun to pay off.

“You never see me truly exhausted,” he added. “Because I have never invited you to bed when I was, for fear I would disappoint you.”

“Well, you're not getting rid of me now,” Geralt murmured. He reached out, one hand framing Emhyr's jaw, his rough palm warm enough to make his eyes fall closed automatically.

The kiss that followed was softer than the last, gentle in its insistence, slow and lazy and almost entirely free of intent. It was a kiss for the sake of kissing, for the sake of _contact_.

And for comfort, as well, and for the first time, Emhyr did not hesitate to take comfort in it. He pulled Geralt closer by the leggings he still had a grip on, soaking in the heat of his body, memorising the taste of his mouth for the thousandth time and finding it completely, utterly new in the light of everything that had passed between them.

They stumbled to the bed, Geralt kicking boots and leggings off with more coordination than Emhyr could hope to muster in a hundred years.

“Eager?” Geralt teased, and Emhyr could not find it in himself to disagree. He _was_ eager. This was all new, all over again.

“Always,” he said instead, because this, too, was true.

The way it made Geralt's eyes light up when he said it was dangerous. If that continued, Emhyr could imagine himself becoming addicted to telling the truth.

Perhaps only to Geralt. Perhaps he would finally tell Geralt all his truths, and trust that he was willing to accept them.

He had, Emhyr supposed, seen the worst. There were many thousands of other sins, but then no man walked through life without them.

If anyone could be friend _and_ lover to Emhyr var Emreis, it was a man who made a habit of befriending monsters.

Geralt pushed him down onto the bed, and they came together like young men did, touching and groping, exploring each other as though for the first time. Testing out their bodies and all the ways they could make the other gasp and moan, the hidden sensitive places they'd already mapped out but rarely touched for the sake of touching.

Emhyr ran a fingertip down a particular scar on Geralt's leg that he knew would make him shiver, and in return, Geralt trailed his hand up the soft inside of Emhyr's thigh, gripping tight once he got to the top of it. Pleasure shuddered down Emhyr's spine, his witcher's touch so sure and confident that he could do little but enjoy it.

Geralt drew them both together with one hand and no finesse to speak of, the awkward touch of new lovers desperate to learn each other's bodies. The scrape and slide of skin against skin, too rough, too fast, and perfect because of it.

They had missed this part, in the beginning. Emhyr had been too busy trying to _keep_ Geralt to enjoy him.

That would change now. Now that he was _sure_.

Emhyr reached out to thread his fingers into Geralt's hair, grabbing a handful with more force than he would usually have allowed himself and pulling Geralt in to kiss him, swallowing his grunt of discomfort and tugging on his hair until it turned into a moan of pleasure, as he had known it would. He had learned Geralt's secrets, one by one, and stored them away.

Now he would use them. All of them, whenever he had the opportunity. There was no longer any need to hold back.

Their legs tangled together as they both scrambled to be closer, to press every inch of skin they could together, to feel the closeness they so desperately needed after all that had passed between them.

Geralt finished with a broken moan, far too quickly, spilling hot over Emhyr’s stomach, and Emhyr followed him right over the edge like an untried boy, stifling a cry against Geralt’s shoulder as white-hot pleasure flowed down his spine, leaving him gasping for air as his hips jerked against Geralt’s, slowing to a stop as the last wave of Emhyr’s orgasm washed over him softly.

In the aftermath he was wrung out, as if hollowed from the inside, but content in a way he had not been in so long that he barely remembered the feeling.

Elves were wise creatures indeed.

To Emhyr’s surprise, he laughed. Quite without intending to.

“Wasn’t sure you could do that,” Geralt murmured, staying close, the two of them sharing one pillow and neither of them, clearly, in the mood to be the first to move.

“Nor was I,” Emhyr confessed softly. “Certainly not without meaning to.”

Once upon a time, he had been the kind of man who laughed often. Perhaps, with a little time and practice, he could be again.

If it made Geralt happy, he could learn to.

“You have a prize to claim,” Emhyr murmured, not forgetting the wager which Geralt had won by default.

Geralt’s hand alighted on the curve of Emhyr’s hip, his thumb tracing slow circles against Emhyr’s skin. “I want the other half of the bed,” Geralt said.

The other half of the…?

Oh.

 _Oh_.

“Always,” Geralt continued. “Formalities to be negotiated… some other time.”

Formalities to be negotiated.

That was _vastly_ more than Emhyr could ever have hoped for.

“Yours,” Emhyr agreed. “Always.”

And he meant the bed.

But he also meant himself.

Geralt smiled at him, his eyes lighting up, crinkling at the corners, warmth rolling off him like a physical force, and the very last of Emhyr’s worries about whether or not he could have this evaporated.

He could have it. It was too important to lose.

***

Geralt lay sprawled out on the bed, his head in Emhyr’s lap, hair being stroked gently as Emhyr drank his tea and read morning reports.

He was so happy he could have burst.

An unanticipated benefit of sharing Emhyr’s bed every night was that they had a _lot_ more morning sex now, and Geralt mostly got to wake up with Emhyr tangled around him, and he slept more peacefully, more often, than he had in longer than he could remember.

He accepted a grape from Emhyr’s fingers with lips and tongue. The last of the harvest by now, worth savouring, especially the burst of sweetness combined with the remembered salt of Emhyr’s fingers, the particular taste of his skin that Geralt had come to associate with pleasure.

“My vote still goes to wine country,” he said. “Not that I don’t see the merits of the coast, but…”

“I suppose we could consider a lake,” Emhyr said. “Although I would point out that wine comes in barrels, which are highly portable. You can move it anywhere you like.”

It wasn’t as though they had to decide yet, but Geralt was glad Emhyr had something to look forward to. His mood had darkened when he started subtly tying up loose ends relating to his rule, and Geralt had done his best to distract him with sex, but what was _really_ working was the future.

The future Geralt had by now promised he’d share with him.

Not least of all because Ciri had finally confessed to him that she was thinking of giving Morvran a chance.

Geralt had even managed not to wince at the sudden mental image of the guy naked. He was _never_ going to forgive Emhyr for making him imagine that.

“Well, you won’t let me have monsters…” Geralt said, teasing. “You know that means you’re my sparring partner when we go, right? If I can’t play with your guards and there’s nothing for me to kill…”  

“There will be guards,” Emhyr said. “I will still be worth the bother of assassinating to some people.” He paused. “But I would not necessarily object to the position, regardless.”

Geralt grinned. He really liked the idea of teaching Emhyr how to pin him to the ground by force _properly_ , and he wasn’t even ashamed to admit that. He still wasn’t over how hot it’d been the first time Emhyr did it.

“Yeah,” Geralt drawled. “Usually it’s _me_ objecting to positions.”

“Your lack of faith in our elven ancestors has not gone unnoted,” Emhyr said.

They still had more than half the positions in that goddamn book to go through, and every time Geralt was _sure_ there was no way in hell two men past middle-age could get into them, he’d been proven wrong.

He was really starting to like it when Emhyr was right.

“Yeah, well.” Geralt shrugged. “I’m sure they’re thrilled you’re defending their honour.”

Emhyr snorted, picking up a different report and sipping his tea. A morning just like almost every morning they’d had for the past month, and Geralt usually wasn’t good at routine, but this… this, he was happy to get used to.

“Geralt,” Emhyr spoke up after a moment, turning the page of his current report.

“Mm?” Geralt turned his head to look up at him, catching Emhyr’s glance down at him for a moment before he turned his attention back to his report.

“I love you.”  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Oh also, by popular demand (and because I wanna hang out with you nerds), [I'm on tumblr now](https://softest-punk.tumblr.com)!! Come say hi if you want :3


End file.
